As an author of westerns, I figured I'd better put a bunch of interesting facts and fiction concerning the historical west on the web. This blog does that. It will include poetry, fiction, factual articles and links, and as much western color as I can muster. Have a fun read.

About Me

永年コピライターをしてから引退をしました。2005年にニュージーランドへ渡りヨットを自作。単独の世界一周に出港。難破。船を亡くしたが命が助かった。それから小説作家の道へ。現在では10冊目が売れ、11冊目に取りかかる所。頑張ります。
Although I write Western novels as Chuck Tyrell, I've been a magazine and newspaper journalist for more than 30 years. I'm interested in the effect sports have on the lives of physically challenged athletes (we call them paralympians) and have started a blog about them. I also have a blog in Japanese on the eternal enigma of learning English.

Saturday, July 27, 2013

A Western in 30 Working Days--Day Seven

Me in an earlier day. Could be a Dent, though

I KNOW. The days in the title and those in the calendar don't jibe. Still, that's what time I've been able to put in as of right now. Two days on the road didn't give me any time, and a half day reporting today evened out the time to seven working days on the novel. My count.

We know Molly Miller's in trouble. And she is. Read this.

Molly squatted not far from Wee Willy, but in the shade of a
boulder. She was thirstier than she’d ever been in her life, but she refused to
drink or even look at the canteens, unless told to fetch one.

“You all’ll die if’n you don’t take some water,” Wee Willy
said. He spoke only loud enough for his voice to carry to Molly’s ears.

Question: will Molly survive until someone can rescue her? Could any woman survive the sadistic treatment they'd receive from the Dents?

“Move’ut,” Leroy hollered.

She dogtrotted across the sunburnt patch of ground and
halted in front of Leroy, her shoulders slumped and her head bowed. Her ratty
hair fell in snarls around her face.

Leroy took a roundhouse swing at her that sent his right
hand splatting against the side of her face. “Bitch. When I call ya, come
running.”

Molly dropped to her knees
without a sound.

“You hear me, bitch?” Leroy’s
voice nearly screeched.

Molly toppled forward, but caught herself with hands spread
wide, elbows locked and fingers splayed. She panted. Ung. Ung. Ung. Ung. Like a child who has been told to shut up, but
can’t hold the sobs back completely.

Stryker has his problems, too. But Tucson's a populous town so privacy or not being recognized is an iffy situation.

“Hold up, Saif,” Stryker said. The black Arabian stopped.

Carpenter pulled the dun up beside Saif. “Damn. That’s
some horse you’ve got, Stryker. Never seen the like. Like he knows everything
you say.”